


Resolve

by Bullfinch



Series: Sublimation [4]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Gang Rape, M/M, Monster Reaper, Rape Aftermath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-19
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-08-15 02:57:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8039776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bullfinch/pseuds/Bullfinch
Summary: Sequel to Dissolution. A day after his reunion with Jack, Gabriel returns to the Talon base.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If you haven't already, please consider reading [Dissolution](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7642987) before you read this story. They go together.

Gabriel shows up at the Talon base weaponless and in civilian clothes.

They’re not going to be happy about that. The guns he uses aren’t cheap. But he’s the only one who can do what he does so they won’t cut him loose (or kill him, rather, since Talon’s not in the business of letting its employees run free with all those secrets in their heads). If they ever find another operative who can get shot a dozen times and walk it off, then maybe he’d start to worry.

They won’t be happy about his failed mission either. He’ll just tell them that soldier interrupted him again, and it was too risky to go back. Which is half-true, at least. It wasn’t the risk that stopped him.

He thinks again of Jack in that white button-down with the sleeves rolled up, the startled blue eyes, the six-pack dangling from his hand.

“Hey, Reyes.”

Gabriel looks up.

Matsuda, leaning against the hangar wall. One of the higher-ranking officers stationed here, but he still answers to Gabriel both in training and in the field and the resentment hardens his face now as it does every time they see each other. One of his eyes is blackened—Gabriel did that in training a few days ago with a hard elbow. Matsuda’s been more vicious recently—maybe pissed that his promotion still didn’t put him on top, but Gabriel doesn’t really care why, has been happy to answer in kind. He’s gotten a few broken noses for his trouble, but his own injuries heal a lot faster than anyone else’s.

Matsuda nods at him. “Hey, you don’t look like a fucking monster for once. What a nice surprise.” He motions. “Except the eyes. You fucked those up.”

It’s true. Gabriel tried to make himself presentable but his eyes (only two this time, at least) still glow a dim red. His lip curls. “I’m gonna fuck your other one up if you keep saying shit like that to me.”

Matsuda chuckles. “I ain’t the one you should be worried about. Guzman wants to see you. You didn’t check in.”

Guzman. The big boss. “Yeah,” Gabriel growls and brushes past, shouldering the door open.

“You fuck your mission up too?” Matsuda calls down the hallway. “Can’t do shit right these days, can you, Reyes?”

 _“Chúpame la verga,”_ Gabriel snaps back in the hopes that it won’t raise a response. He was tired of this before it started. Matsuda doesn’t say anything, thank fuck, and Gabriel heads down the hall in accompanied only by the sound of his boots clicking dully on the metal floor. He runs a hand through his hair—feels it, coarse and curly. Sensation. He found he missed it after that night with Jack. It’s a sort of thrill now to feel all these textures running over his skin, even mundane ones like his own hair.

Guzman’s office. Gabriel doesn’t bother knocking. Can’t muster the respect. Instead he barges straight in.

Guzman’s not alone in the tin box he calls his office. There are two other guys there—Gabriel recognizes them, one of the techs and a soldier he vaguely knows from training. Big guy but not all that smart.

And Guzman.

He shifts and lets out a sigh, his slicked-back hair shining faintly in the overhead lights. “Reyes. Come here.”

Gabriel approaches, the other two breaking off to go wait their turn by the door. Guzman sits forward. “You didn’t check in.”

“No. Forgot.” Technically true.

“So did you get the converter?”

Gabriel shrugs. “No.”

Guzman narrows his eyes. “Do you want to tell me what the hell happened?”

“That soldier showed up again. Chased him off, but there was a shootout. Too much of a security risk to go back.”

“Chased him off, huh? You couldn’t, I don’t know, finish the goddamn job?”

Gabriel’s lip curls. “He was heading for crowds. Would you rather I got spotted? Or caught?”

“I would rather you _steal the goddamn converter,_ Reyes. This is the fourth task you’ve failed in three months.”

“Yeah, well, blame the goddamn—“

“The soldier, yes, I know. Surprised he keeps on foiling someone like you.”

Gabriel lifts an eyebrow. “Someone like me?”

“Don’t play coy.” Guzman waves a hand. “You’re Blackwatch-trained and you’re made of machines, for God’s sake. You should be able to kill a single human being.”

Gabriel bares his animal teeth. “Are you questioning my skills?”

“Yes,” Guzman shoots back. “And I have been for weeks, actually. Was wondering why you kept on coming back empty-handed.” He rises. “So I thought I’d conduct my own investigation.”

Fuck. Gabriel tries to turn, his instincts blaring flame-bright. _Something’s wrong._ But the big guy grabs him and the tech’s holding something that looks like a nail gun and jams it against his thigh.

A trigger-click and searing pain deep into his leg. Instantly his muscles go dead, and the big guy lets him go, leaving him to collapse to the floor in a messy pile. Frantically he tries to move. Nothing. His eyes flick up but there isn’t a twitch in his fingers or toes.

Guzman stands over him. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out?” he hisses. “The drone got you on video, _cabrón._ You taking it up the ass from your mysterious soldier. Who—“ He chuckles. “—turns out to be your old friend Jack Morrison.”

 _They know._ Terror sweeps over Gabriel of the kind he hasn’t felt in years and years, so long forgotten it overpowers him now. _They know about Jack._

Guzman crouches. “We’re going to kill him, Reyes. As for you…not yet.”

Gabriel tries to speak, barely manages it. “What did—you do to—“

“We’ve been studying you, you know. Studying your machines. Matsuda’s been a great help.”

It takes Gabriel a second to make the connection. Matsuda wasn’t beating him up because of a grudge—not _only_ because of a grudge, he wanted blood samples, smeared on his knuckles or sprayed on the mat, to take back to the lab. That motherfucker. Gabriel wants to kill him.

Guzman jerks his head. “Come on.”

The big guy leans down and grabs Gabriel by the throat.

Gabriel’s arms twitch, an impulse running down them to rise and get at the guy’s hand. But it fails in a split-second and his muscles are dead again. _Fuck._ Something’s wrong—not just the paralysis, it goes deeper than that. The machines used to screen information for him, shape it, smooth it out until the peaks and troughs fell within a dynamic but calculated range. That isn’t happening anymore. His leg hurts too much, too _fucking much._ His movements, too, they would optimize for economy and responsiveness. Not that he’s moving now, but his muscles feel—tight, heavy. Clumsy.

He can’t reach the network. The machines are still inside him but are closed off to him now. He can function without them, has built all the necessary structures to maintain life, ability, and the full spectrum of cognition. But the machines have deserted him.

Gabriel blinks sweat out of his eyes. Now he’s just a body.

The big guy stands again and drags Gabriel out the door by his throat.

He can breathe, barely. Mostly it hurts, the asshole’s fingers digging into his neck. Every time his heel catches on a seam in the floor it disturbs the new hole in his thigh and the pain shoots through him, hot and electric without the machines to disperse it. Gabriel’s eyes prick, his stomach twisting. He’s helpless like this. Completely. To his right the tech prods at a tablet, skimming through the holodisplay glowing in blue above it. To the left Guzman keeps pace. “We’ve overridden your programming, by the way. We’re controlling it now. In case you were wondering why you can’t move.”

That shouldn’t be possible. He went over it with Dr. Ziegler when she first did this to him. _What if I get hacked?_ he asked. _Impossible,_ she replied. _The network is closed to outside signals._

But the signal isn’t outside. It’s stuck in that bleeding hole in his thigh and he can’t move to dig it out. Some program contained in whatever object they punched into his leg, now in direct contact with the nanomachines.

Guzman sighs. “You fucked up, Reyes. You were valuable. I didn’t need loyalty. All I wanted was a little fucking discretion.”

Gabriel feels it. How he tries to move, how his muscles anticipate it but never follow through. The reflexes are different—he gets a twitch down his leg when the pain shocks him again but can’t finish the motion, can’t draw it up to protect it.

He still _feels._ They’re blocking off his muscles but the nerves are still there, carefully reconstructed because he missed them for some stupid fucking reason and now he feels the deep, bruising pressure on his neck, the sweat rolling down his spine, how his shirt sticks to his ribs. He didn’t used to sweat—the machines were precise regulators of his temperature. But the machines have betrayed him. Now he’s just a body.

They drag him into the gym.

He is noticed. There are a couple dozen soldiers there, most of whom will be ecstatic to see him made helpless. Gabriel has not made friends here. They separate from their equipment, drifting closer.

Guzman jerks his head. “Let’s bring him over there.”

The punching bags. Gabriel’s fingers drag over the floor mats. “Like I mentioned, I’m not going to kill you yet,” Guzman tells him. “First because I know you’re hard to kill and I want to make sure we get it done right. And second because I’m pissed off that you played me for a fool. I thought this soldier guy was actually something to be worried about. Turns out you’re just fucking him.” Guzman nods. “Take one of those bags down and get him out of his clothes.”

The big guy drops him to the mat, unhooks one of the bags and rolls it up against the wall. Then he kneels and starts stripping Gabriel’s shirt off, moving his body like he’s a rag doll. Gabriel wants to tell him to stop but fears ridicule or retaliation.

The other soldiers are gathering. Guzman stands with arms folded. “So I’m not killing you yet. Still, you deserve some kind of punishment, right? For fucking me over. But then I figure, hey, you gave a couple of good years to this organization.”

Gabriel’s shirt comes off, and then his pants and boots. He lies naked on the gym mat with the soldiers gathering loosely around him. He’s completely exposed to them now. The mat sticks to his skin. The big guy extracts the belt from the discarded clothing and wraps it around Gabriel’s wrists.

“So you should get a reward, right? For your service,” Guzman continues. “And we just learned you like taking it up the ass. You _love_ it, in fact. Shoulda seen your face on the video.”

Gabriel is lifted awkwardly upright. One of the soldiers comes forward to help. The big guy gets the belt over the hook left vacant by the punching bag. Gabriel hangs, his knees bent. Then someone hikes up the chain and he’s lifted higher and higher until his toes just brush the mat.

“Here’s your reward, _maricón._ Hope you like it.” Guzman gestures sharply. “Fuck him.”

Gabriel’s shoulders are already feeling the strain. The disbelief fades quickly. Of course this is happening. What has he done here but make enemies? On purpose? Why wouldn’t they leap on his first mistake for the chance to destroy him?

Matsuda.

The rest are standing back, faintly unsure. But Matsuda is pushing through and was in on it from the start, and the yellow-green pool of dead blood around his blackened eye crinkles as he grins. “You fucked up, Reyes.”

Yeah. Guzman told him that already.

Gabriel sees the punch coming but can’t get out of the way, can only flinch when it thuds hard into his stomach. Pain. Visceral and immediate. He shouldn’t feel it like that, but the machines belong to Talon now. Now he is just a body. Matsuda gets behind him and there’s the sound of a zipper, a hand spreading his ass cheeks, clumsy pressure on his dry hole. Burning as he’s slowly forced open.

Then the pressure vanishes. “Jesus, I can’t even get in. Someone get me some fucking lube!”

A couple of them break off. The rest keep on staring. Warming up to it now, less confused, a few smiles starting to appear. None of them will lift a finger to stop this. He’s abused them all verbally in training, often physically as well, and never been reprimanded for it. He was too valuable. But he’s pissed away his immunity. On a night with Jack. A mistake he never planned to repeat.

Matsuda slaps him suddenly and forcefully. His gnarled teeth gouge the inside of his cheek, and blood trickles into his mouth, collecting in his gums. “I’ve been looking forward to this,” Matsuda gloats.

Gabriel should respond to that. But he can’t think of anything to say. _I did this to myself. I should never have gone to Jack. I should never have pretended things could be like they were before._ Matsuda’s eyes flick over his shoulder, and he brushes past. “Finally.”

 _Dissolve._ Gabriel tries and fails, as he knew he would; he remains heavy, solid and taut, skin prickled with sweat, leg still throbbing with pain. There won’t be any dissolving, no sublimation into a cloud of electronic smoke, no dispersal of sensation and processing across an uncountable host of machines. For now he is just a body. His hands jerk a little, the belt digging into his wrists.

Slippery fingers spreading his ass again. Pressure at his hole. He doesn’t want this. Doesn’t want to be violated. Not when he can’t even fight back, can only hang here and meekly accept it.

A sudden stretch. It burns, and the discomfort follows soon after, sliding further into him and forcing him open. A cramp shoots up his rectum.

“Shit, Reyes, you’re about to squeeze my dick off,” Matsuda breathes. “Were you this tight for your pretty-boy Morrison? Huh?”

It hurts. The cramping is sharper now. “What’s wrong?” Matsuda eases out an inch or two, then slides back in. “You not enjoying yourself? Thought you loved taking it up the ass.”

Gabriel finally manages to open his mouth and fight back in the only way he can. “F—fuck off.”

“Wheeler,” Matsuda calls, and the tech glances up and swipes at his tablet.

The shock of sexual arousal takes Gabriel completely by surprise. It isn’t physical, or not only, instead subsuming his mind in the sort of needy excitement he hasn’t felt in years—hadn’t until he and Jack were sitting on the couch together with their legs tangled up and Jack’s hand resting on his chest beneath the sweatshirt. What the fuck? He’s being raped. This shouldn’t be—

The machines. They control the machines.

The tech glances up, frowns a little at the tablet and nudges it with one finger. The arousal surges. Gabriel’s jaw tightens, and shame burns like bile in the pit of his stomach as his dick starts to fill with blood. Then Matsuda thrusts into him and there’s a pressure on his prostate and his dick jerks, rising to stand out in front of him.

It’s confusing. There’s no external stimulus so the arousal latches on in passing to the intrusion inside him and his instincts tell him _this feels good._ But it doesn’t—it hurts and it’s humiliating. He manages to carve away much. His body refuses the rest, because he built the _fucking nerves_ back in when he was with Jack and the arousal still circulates in torrents in his head and plunges down the messy organic pathways straight to his groin. If the machines were with him he could stop it, disassemble the nerves to scavenge for parts. But the machines aren’t with him.

Now he’s just a body.

Matsuda thrusts into him, violently. A wave of disgusting pleasure radiates from between his legs. The arousal loops into it, tries again to seize on Matsuda inside him. _It feels good._ No, it hurts. The cramps are coming faster now, a deep, sharp pain. His dick is hard. Sweat rolls down his ribs and spine.

“Don’t be shy.” Matsuda balls a hand in his hair and yanks his head back. “He likes dishing out the corporal punishment, right? Let’s see if he can take it too.”

One of the soldiers comes forward almost immediately (Gabriel recognizes him, a contemptuous asshole whom he’s pinned against the wall or thrown on the ground more than once). The guy winds up and punches him in the jaw. Gabriel’s head snaps to the side, cuts opening on the inside of his lips from his goddamn teeth. The next blow strikes him in the nose and he feels the snap as it breaks. Blood fills his nostrils; he snorts, and it sprays onto the ground.

“Goddamn. You’re too fucking tight.” Matsuda pulls out of him, giving him a little relief from the painful stretch. “Who wants to loosen him up for me?”

Gabriel stares at the gym mat. His shoulders are hurting already.

——

_“You’re a fucking weapon, Reyes!”_

He tries to think about that.

 _“Are you questioning me?” Stockman snarled._ “You? _You’re questioning me?”_

There’s still a punching bag hanging beside him. The soldiers seem to use that as an example. His stomach is one massive ache. There’s a belt being passed around too. Thin lines of broken skin cover his thighs.

They can’t rape his mouth, at least. The teeth would make it a dangerous undertaking.

_Gabriel was shaken but couldn’t back down, not yet. “We shouldn’t be doing this. At least wait until—“_

_“We’re not waiting!”_

Someone else is fucking him. His asshole is sore. It feels good. It feels really good. He was fighting it before but even that, the revulsion, has become arousing. The rape is humiliating and it excites him. No, it shouldn’t. But it is. Guzman is long gone but Matsuda sits beside the tech and asks him questions sometimes, or gives him suggestions. The arousal is a poisonous sludge clogging up Gabriel’s head, and it just keeps rising higher.

 _“We’re going in._ You’re _going in.”_

_Gabriel steeled himself. “It’s not right, sir. I won’t—“_

_“Don’t give me that_ shit!” _Stockman shouted. “You don’t get to decide what’s right or not! You’re not a fucking person anymore! You’re made of machines now! Do you understand? You’re a fucking weapon, Reyes!”_

They can’t force him to orgasm, he doesn’t think. He can feel it when they try, when the arousal crashes over him like a tidal wave and he _wants_ to climax, can think of nothing else. But it always requires an extra scrap of stimulation—a little more pressure on his prostate and he finds himself ejaculating as his legs shudder and twitch and he moans from deep in his chest.

The soldiers have been ejaculating as well, mostly on his thighs or stomach as if marking their territory. They enjoy raping him. Not for the heat and tightness of his asshole—many are unused to fucking men and can’t reach climax solely through the act of the rape. But he sees the hunger in their eyes as they watch his injury and humiliation, stroking themselves in front of him. That’s where they get their sexual gratification. From his helplessness, from the blood and semen congealing together on his skin.

_Gabriel should have responded but was too abashed, could think of nothing to say. Stockman advanced on him, still furious. “Don’t pretend you didn’t choose this. You wanted those goddamn machines. You wanted to be a better weapon. Well, guess what? You made it.” He jabbed a finger into Gabriel’s chest. “Guns don’t talk back. Tanks don’t disobey. So get out there and do what you were made to do.”_

He’s a weapon. He’s made of machines.

His asshole is sore. His shoulders are burning. His stomach aches. His dick is heavy with blood.

They might have lifted the block on his muscles a little. He can move, if not by much—can brace his toes on the floor to take a small portion of the weight off his shoulders, can roll his hips back into whomever is fucking him at the moment. The soldiers laugh to themselves when he does that. But it feels good. The resistance and revulsion have curdled together with the arousal like the blood and semen mixing on his skin. He can’t pry them apart anymore. It’s too much and too powerful. And he’s never been all that strong anyway, not really.

Someone slaps him hard in the face. He barely blinks.

Matsuda gets up off the bench, unzips his pants and jerks his head at whoever’s currently raping Gabriel. The guy slides out and Matsuda takes his place, ramming in without ceremony. A far easier entrance than his first attempt. One of his hands snakes up and wraps around Gabriel’s neck as he starts thrusting. “Seen your hips moving, Reyes,” he breathes. “You finally enjoying yourself? Huh?”

Gabriel nods. “Y-yeah.” His throat is parched. He swallows blood.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Matsuda’s grip tightens. “All right, come on, let’s see you fuck back on me.”

Harder to breathe now with his nose broken, Matsuda choking him. But Gabriel can’t bring himself to care. He spreads his feet for better leverage, arches his back, and moves against Matsuda, pushing back onto his hips. Another soldier appears, joining the small gathering before him. They’ve been coming and going, and close to a dozen are here now.

A sound Gabriel doesn’t even register until some of the soldiers’ heads turn. They glance at each other, questioning. It was a sort of _clink._ Gabriel knows the sound, if only he could think what it was.

But reflex kicks in and he shuts his eyes and turns his head as the flashbang goes off.

Rifle shots, duller than normal arms even through the cotton that flashbang left in his ears. He should know by the report what weapon it is. But he isn’t thinking well right now. The arousal still swills around in his head, viscous and heavy and and dark. Shouting among the soldiers. They won’t have weapons here. Matsuda pulls out of him hastily, swearing. Gabriel squints. Spots bloom in his vision even though he closed his eyes.

Reflex. He doesn’t know how many seconds it’s been but he squeezes his eyes shut again. One, two, three, four—

The second flashbang. More shouts of surprise and frustration, but fewer in number now, pared down by the tight bursts of rifle fire. Why did he do that? Two-charge flashbangs are risky weapons that can easily fuck over whoever threw them in the first place—nobody uses them routinely. Almost no one. He cracks his eyes open. Bodies around him, blackened holes in gym clothes with wisps of smoke rising out. One man fleeing toward the far door, but a salvo of flare-bright projectiles thuds into his back and he collapses just as he reaches the threshold.

For a second there’s silence. Then a single shot and the chain gives. Gabriel collapses all at once, thudding into the gym mat.

A Talon soldier in full combat uniform runs toward him, threading through the exercise equipment, rifle slung over his back.

Gabriel tries to move, but his limbs are weak and he can’t even push himself upright. His dick is still hard and begging for stimulation. He hates it.

The soldier hardly stops, just grabs him under one armpit and drags him over to an equipment closet, hauling the door open and heaving Gabriel inside, then locking the door behind them. It’s dark, the only light the red glow of the lenses from the soldier’s headgear. The man flicks on his shoulder light, making Gabriel squint, then goes to remove his mask.

Even before he does it all falls together in Gabriel’s head. Why he anticipated the second flashbang, because he knows what kind of rifle makes those reports and knows the person who favors that rifle favors the two-charge flashbangs too—

Jack sets the mask down, unwrapping the belt from Gabriel’s wrists. “Can you move?”


	2. Chapter 2

Gabriel struggles to move as his wrists fall free, reaches out and wraps an arm weakly around Jack’s knee, curling up. Over. It’s over.

“Gabe.” Jack’s voice just starting to crack as he brushes Gabriel’s face with a gloved hand. “We have to go. Can you stand?”

“No. Something in my leg,” Gabriel rasps, reaching down to show the puncture wound. “Get it out.”

Jack takes a deep breath and draws something from his belt. “Okay. Sorry, but this is going to hurt.”

Gabriel bares his teeth. “Do it.”

The blade plunges into his leg and he exhales, long and harsh, at the agony of it. Nausea seizes his stomach right on its heels. Jack’s fingers delve into the wound and root around for a few long seconds before he grunts and withdraws something bloody and silver.

Gabriel shuts his eyes.

The arousal is gone. Thank fuck. His head empties out, and he savors the feeling for a moment. Another bright blur of pain in his leg—he grunts and hears the hiss of a spring-loaded syringe. Flexfoam fills the messy hole, and the pain starts to diminish. That should stabilize the wound until they can get out. If they can get out.

“Here.” Jack unships his pack. “Brought you a uniform.”

Something’s still wrong. Gabriel stares at his hand, curls and uncurls it. His muscles remain heavy and taut, the ache in his stomach and the burning of his cut-up thighs too immediate. The machines should be dulling that out.

But they aren’t helping him. _Still._ He supposes he can’t be surprised. They may be recovering from that program. Or just damaged irreparably. It doesn’t matter either way. They have to go. He jams himself into the Talon uniform (his skin sticky—no time to think about it) and slides the headgear over his head, takes the sidearm Jack offers. His legs are shaky when he stands and his shoulders still burn from taking his weight for so long, but he can move. He can raise his weapon and sight down the barrel. Jack replaces his own mask, taps the lenses to scan the gym through the door, then gestures.

Gabriel follows him out of the room.

His legs are so unsteady that sprinting is nearly dangerous, but he manages to stay upright. There’s no time to linger. Across the gym and into the hallway—where they nearly collide with another pair of soldiers, armed but not in full uniform.

“Have you found him yet?!” Jack barks through the mask.

One of the soldiers starts. “Uh—no. He’s not in there?”

“No.” Jack waves an arm. “Keep looking!”

The soldiers dash past. That was smooth. Jack heads down another hallway, Gabriel just behind. “Jack,” he mutters. “You know where you’re going?”

“Yeah, I went over the layout on the way over. We’re heading to the hangar.”

Three more soldiers. Jack deals with them as he did the first pair, even and sure. Gabriel keeps his mouth shut. They’ll recognize his voice. His bruised ribs hurt as his breath quickens from the running. More soldiers in the next hallway over who pass by without hailing them. A pang of doubt seizes him. This is too dangerous. Jack shouldn’t be here. Talon will kill him. And all over—what? Gabriel. One man (or weapon, or something) who’s done nothing but murder and steal and maim for five years—long before that, from the time he was first assigned to Blackwatch.

And Jack’s been trying. Jack’s been fixing his mistakes even though he didn’t have to.

“Almost there,” Jack murmurs under his breath.

An intersection of hallways. He goes right. At the end the metal door that leads to the hangar. Close now. Jack reaches for the handle—

The door bangs open. Jack starts, and Gabriel backs away as three soldiers file inside.

The first in line is Matsuda.

Gabriel freezes, pins and needles prickling over his whole body until he remembers the headgear covers his face. He’s safe for now. Matsuda must have escaped the gym during the initial attack and gone to find a weapon—there’s a pistol at his belt now. Jack cuts in. “You see which way he went?”

“No, but he should be dragging a lame dog behind him. You two see anyone like that?” Matsuda looks up at Gabriel.

Gabriel shakes his head, not daring to speak aloud. “I don’t think so,” Jack says. “You think they went out through the hub?”

A smart play, demonstrating knowledge of the Talon base to firm up their cover story. But Matsuda’s still staring at Gabriel. Jack must sense something’s wrong because he intervenes, snapping his fingers and gesturing. “Come on, let’s keep looking.”

 _“Reyes,”_ Matsuda snarls.

Fuck.

Of course Matsuda would know him—doesn’t need to see a face to recognize the body that he’s sparred with for months, the body he was raping just a few minutes ago. He goes for his pistol but Jack lashes out and strikes his hand, and the weapon clatters to the ground. Then the two other soldiers are pulling their sidearms so Jack has to deal with them and Matsuda is coming straight for Gabriel.

Gabriel knows it’s too late to draw his own pistol but tries anyway, only for Matsuda to grab the barrel and twist so Gabriel lets go and throws a chop at his wrist and the pistol spins away down the hall. _“Gabe!”_ Jack shouts, which is a warning for something but Gabriel doesn’t realize what until (Matsuda throwing a punch, Gabriel moving to take it in the shoulder instead of the face) the corridor fills with a flash of light and a deafening _bang._

The concussive force is enough to throw him off-balance and no more—hard to pack a lot of power into the little spheres Jack favors. He and Matsuda appear to have been affected about the same, Matsuda planting a hand on the wall as Gabriel staggers and tries to see between the white spots that nearly blind him.

Shit. He needs to start counting.

Missed the start of it so he begins with _eight_ as Matsuda launches himself forward with a wild punch, _seven_ as Gabriel sidesteps, prays (can’t _see_ the goddamn punch with his vision blown out) and the strike slams into the wall next to his ear. He pumps a fist into Matsuda’s middle and hits body armor— _six—_ takes a shot to the ribs for it and winces as he feels something pop. Can’t be up against a wall like this so he slips sideways— _five—_ and bats down the next blow, throws a fast kick and catches the back of Matsuda’s knee, making him stumble.

 _Four._ Gabriel pushes the advantage, still half-blind, landing a punch to Matsuda’s jaw. The retaliation gets him hard in the gut, and he buckles and gasps— _three—_ anticipates the follow-up, an overhead strike that he diverts down past his mask. He swivels and the next blow misses him. _Two._ How to play this? Gabriel dives forward to wrap Matsuda up in a clinch, rotating them both a quarter-turn. _One._ Matsuda’s hands slip around the back of Gabriel’s head. If it’s too easy, he doesn’t notice, just drags Gabriel’s head down, but Gabriel gets an arm in to block the knee aimed at his face—

The second flashbang goes off.

With his head protected by Matsuda’s body, most of the flash misses him, although the bang still sets his ears ringing again. His positioning comes through too, Matsuda acting as a barrier between him and the blast of force. He’s ready for it, and as soon as Matsuda stumbles Gabriel grabs him, swivels, and throws him to the ground, clasps both hands together and smashes them down on his nose.

It doesn’t quite put him out; his limbs still move weakly. But he’s good and dazed. Gabriel searches at his own belt—if this is supposed to be a Talon uniform it might be there—finds the sheath, flicks open the leather clasp and draws the combat knife.

When he stabs up under the lower edge of the body armor and into Matsuda’s belly, he doesn’t get any screaming, just a jerk and a sort of agonized whine. It’s not a fatal blow so Gabriel pulls the knife out and jams it in again, and again and again and again in quick succession. Matsuda makes an ugly, liquid noise and tries to cover his stomach. Gabriel knocks his hand away and stabs him once more.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, although his ears are half-shot and he can barely hear himself, has no idea if Matsuda can hear him either. “You not enjoying yourself?”

Through the white spots in his vision he sees Matsuda’s eyes terrified and shining, locked on his mask.

A hand on his shoulder. “Gabe.” Jack’s voice, rough and steady, breaking through the ringing in his ears. “They’ll have heard that. We gotta go.”

Gabriel stands. Jack’s holding out his lost pistol, so he takes it and heads into the hangar.

It’s silent when they enter, but as they head for the external door Gabriel catches a muffled shout behind them so he starts to run. He and Jack break outside, Jack hauling the door shut and tossing a grenade just in front of it. Gabriel doesn’t stop to see the results, although the force of the blast when it goes off makes him stumble and the screams tell him it did something.

The treeline is past the runway, shadowed in the cloudy afternoon, maybe two hundred yards ahead. There are a few stacks of supplies or equipment scattered here or there, but only a few. Thirty seconds, if he goes fast enough. They have to survive thirty seconds on open ground.

Gabriel runs. The flexfoam isn’t so good at absorbing shock when he’s sprinting but he does it anyway, despite the jolts of pain. His life depends on it.

A rifle report pierces the ringing in his ears. The bullets strike to his left, spraying up fragments of tarmac. Is it better to weave and throw off their shots or sprint in a straight line as hard as he can to get to cover? He chooses the latter, following Jack’s lead. A second burst of bullets, this time tearing up the tarmac just ahead of him.

Another rifle report. From ahead of them now. Gabriel glances over his shoulder. One Talon soldier lain out on the ground while the rest scurry for cover. That wasn’t Jack. So—

“Ana!” Jack calls over his shoulder. “She’ll cover us, just run!”

Pain jabs into Gabriel’s ribs with each breath he heaves in. It doesn’t matter. He has to keep running. Another report from the sniper rifle, and a third. More bursts of gunfire behind him.

Ana?

He suspected she was alive, spotted the clues in the debriefs these past few months. Why would she help him? She knows what he’s done—after Overwatch was investigated, everybody knows. The sniper rifle sounds much closer now, just above him—

Tree-shadows cover him over, and his boots slip a little on a carpet of dead pine needles.

Cooler here, and gloomier. Pine branches smack into his arms as he runs, following the path Jack picks through the thick, shaggy trunks. More sniper fire from behind him, but only a moment longer before it stops. Gabriel glances over his shoulder and catches a cloaked figure in brown and green darting after them through the trees.

“Watch your step,” Jack barks, and Gabriel starts, finds at his feet a steep incline dotted with rocks. He slows only a little, making his way down. No time to linger. The hole in his leg burns every time his weight jars onto it, but he grits his teeth and pushes on, grasping at branches for support. The muscle’s too weak and he’s putting too much pressure on the flexfoam—hasn’t used it in years but remembers what it felt like back when his flesh was flesh. The firm plug in his leg is starting to tear. But Talon might be on their heels so he leans on it anyway. It just needs to hold a little longer, until they get to wherever Jack is taking—

The leg gives. Gabriel crashes to a knee, bashing his kneecap open on a jut of rock, and covers his head to protect it as he rolls down the incline. Roots and stones jab into his arms and back as he tumbles. A few more bruises for his hubris. Then something solid stops him with a grunt.

Gabriel squints up. It’s Jack, crouched just a few feet in front of a shallow, wide river. “Come on.” He hauls Gabriel upright. “Almost there.”

In the middle of the river there’s a quad-occupancy stealth substrat, the narrow body resting atop two long, flat engines. Gabriel can’t imagine Jack got approval to take that thing just to save him, but he doesn’t question it, wading through the river at a limp with his arm slung over Jack’s shoulder. The water is freezing, his boots soaked through already. Ana splashes ahead of them, opening up the cockpit and swinging herself into the pilot’s seat. By the time he and Jack reach it the engines are already spinning up. Gabriel grabs the metal edge and heaves himself inside; Jack follows a second later, the two of them tangled up in the dual seat, and Jack shouts, “Go, Ana!”

The cockpit glides closed, and the engines build to a thrum as the craft rises into the air. Gabriel grasps his leg, hissing in pain. He can feel the broken pieces of the flexfoam sliding against each other inside the wound. His kneecap, too, is a bright flame of agony.

“Hey, Gabe,” Jack breathes. “Come on up here.”

Wincing, Gabriel climbs onto the seat, dragging his headgear off. Then his stomach lurches as the substrat shoots east, skimming over the trees. Ana calls over her shoulder, “Two minutes to elevation.”

Gabriel stares out of the cockpit at the blanket of evergreens passing by beneath them. What now? Is there something more to be done?

Jack pulls his own headgear off, his cheek bruised and his lip split from the altercation by the hangar. He slides the pack from his shoulders. “Let me take another look at your leg.”

Gabriel tips his head back and gazes at the sky through the tinted plastic. Something cuts the fabric away from his thigh.

He starts as the substrat sets down and blinks, scanning. A hangar. Not Talon. The Overwatch logo is painted boldly on the wall. They—they’ve arrived already?

Motion against his hand. He looks down. His fingers are curled around Jack’s.

“Hey,” Jack says.

Gabriel rubs his eyes. He tries to remember the trip and can’t—nothing since Jack cutting open his pants to get at the wound. “Did I fall asleep?” he mumbles.

“Uh—not really. Just kinda stared out the window and didn’t say anything. I packed the hole in your leg and you hardly flinched.”

Gabriel looks down at their joined hands.

Jack follows his gaze but doesn’t pull away. “You did that too.”

The cockpit retracts. Ana slings herself out onto the ground; when Gabriel peers over she’s holding her arms up to steady him. With her and Jack’s help he disembarks, landing on his feet. The wound is stabler now, and he barely wobbles. But Ana doesn’t let him go yet. “Gabriel.” She clasps his hand in both of her own. “I’m so glad to see you again. And I’m so sorry we couldn’t get there earlier.”

He figures the distances in his head. With a substrat, the trip might take ninety minutes. “How did you know?” he murmurs.

“We…have a source in that base,” Jack replies. “He called it in.”

Gabriel wonders if the machines might have used the trip to reset but can already tell that they didn’t. He still feels…heavy. Strained. Doesn’t know why he blacked out during the flight.

“I’m kind of tired,” he says.

“Yeah.” Jack gestures. “I can finish patching you up in my quarters, then you can crash.”

Ana sighs. “Your scientist friend is going to berate someone for taking the substrat, so it might as well be me. Get some rest, Gabriel.”

He nods. “Yeah.”

Jack takes his arm gently, so he limps out of the hangar and down the hall. A few people pass them by. Gabriel recognizes one or two from having shot at them in the recent past. Some stop and stare but Jack challenges them with his gaze and they get out of the way. Gabriel scrubs at his face self-consciously, dried blood flaking off onto his hand. At least his nose isn’t leaking blood anymore, he doesn’t think. Jack leads him to a white door that open smoothly and slides shut behind them, cutting off the outside world.

Silence.

Jack’s quarters are small and plain, the bed made in military style (Gabriel remembers that from the old days). There’s a sofa to one side in front of a wall-mounted TV, and a desk in the corner with a box of storage drives and a mess of packets in hardcopy on top. And beyond, a bathroom.

“I think I need to take a shower,” Gabriel says.

“Yeah, sure. I’ll dig up some clothes and supplies to patch you up when you’re done.” Jack nods at him. “You got any broken bones?”

Gabriel thinks about it. “My nose. Might have cracked my knee. And…” He hikes the uniform shirt up—feels it sticking to his skin—to expose his ribcage, probes at the spot where Matsuda got him. “A rib or two.”

“Gabe.” Jack’s face folds in concern and he comes closer, reaching out. Gabriel realizes too late that it might have been a bad idea to show Jack the mass of bruises that darken his torso, not when he’s still covered in—he draws away sharply, jamming the shirt back down. “You probably don’t want to touch me right now, I’m kind of disgusting.”

A beat of silence. That didn’t help. Jack tries to say something. “Gabe, you—”

“It’s fine,” he interrupts, waving a hand. “I’m gonna go shower.”

He brushes past, limping into the bathroom. The door slides shut behind him.

Alone.

Gabriel strips the shirt off and tosses it on the floor, kicks off the still-damp boots and has to sit down to get out of the pants because his knee is still killing him. Finally he’s naked and he straightens and sees himself in the mirror.

He looks like shit.

His eyes are blackened, his nose a little off-center from the break. His mouth and chin are covered in the blood that was gushing from his nostrils earlier. He’s got a fat lip from getting smacked around too much. And that’s just the face; his hands travel down to skim the bruises over his stomach and ribs, the thin cuts that cover his thighs.

His skin is sticky, faint whitish crusts visible in the mirror. A mild shudder runs through him, and he cracks a smile at his reflection. It’s a good thing he didn’t let Jack touch him.

He gets in the shower.

The preset isn’t hot enough so Gabriel turns it up until steam thickens the air and pours into his lungs. Help clean those out too. But the heat doesn’t help. He’s still in pain. Can’t remember the last time he was in this much pain. The machines are supposed to process it into something manageable. But right now he’s just a body. Only flesh. He braces his hands on the wall of the shower and bows his head. His nose hurts, his ribs and stomach hurt. His leg hurts.

His asshole is still sore from the rape. He tips his head back and lets the hot water spill into his mouth.

Eventually it occurs to him that Jack is probably waiting outside so he reaches for the soap, expects the lemongrass scent even before he smells it (Jack’s never used anything else). It hurts to wash himself with the injuries but it needs to be done. Vaguely he hopes it’ll make him feel a little better. It doesn’t really. At least Jack can touch him now.

He steps out of the shower and shivers, dragging a towel down from the wall. Jack knocks and calls out, “There’s clothes outside the door.”

Gabriel towels off his hair and scrubs himself dry, then hangs the towel and slides the door open. Doesn’t really care if Jack sees him naked. He’s a bunch of machines, after all. Not a true body. Except for now, maybe. But it isn’t as if Jack’s never seen him naked before. Saw it only a couple of hours ago. But Jack is sitting on the bed with his back turned, laying out supplies from a first aid kit. Right. Gabriel crouches to pick through the pile of clothes, wincing as his smashed kneecap bends, and pulls on a pair of briefs. “What did you find?”

Jack glances up. “Come on over.”

The supplies are all analog—none of the standard nanotech, which is probably smart since his machines are short-circuited right now and might react unpredictably. Jack holds up a vial. “Here’s some painkillers.”

Gabriel sits on the bed. “It’s okay. Don’t want ‘em.”

Jack hesitates. “Gabe…look at yourself—“

“I don’t want them!” Gabriel snaps.

Jack doesn’t flinch, only sets the bottle down. “Fine. Let me know if you change your mind.” He plucks a syringe of Osseform from the kit.

That goes in the broken bones. Then the Myodine for the bruised muscles in his stomach and ribs. The last is the Dermatect, a thin gel Jack traces carefully over every cut on Gabriel’s body—his face, the ligature cuts on his wrists, and finally the thin lines the soldiers left on his thighs with the folded-up belt.

It takes a long time. As Jack works Gabriel gazes at his reflection in the television screen. His red eyes gleam dully back at him, sunken in two pools of black.

He has to talk about it. Otherwise it’ll be a ten-ton boulder hanging over both their heads and he doesn’t trust the rope not to fray. After all, he’s never been that strong, not really.

“Think that’s all I can do for now.” Jack dumps the remaining supplies back in the first aid kit. “If you ever want the painkillers—“

“You probably saw me fucking back on Matsuda,” Gabriel interrupts.

Jack is quiet for a second, gazing at him with those lightning-blue eyes. “Gabe, you don’t—“

“They did that to me,” he continues. “Their program. They were controlling the nanomachines, they made me…aroused. I was—I tried to fight it at the beginning.”

“Gabe.” He’s breaking just a little bit, Gabriel can see it, being pulled apart by just how much he _cares._ “I’m so sorry.”

Gabriel shrugs one shoulder. “Whatever. It’s done. My own goddamn fault anyway.” He shakes his head with a grimace. “I _knew_ treating those guys like shit would come back and bite me in the ass and I still did it. Fucking stupid of me.”

Jack’s frozen, staring at him in something like horror. “Gabe. It wasn’t your _fault._ It was an act of cruelty. No one deserves that.”

Gabriel finds himself back across what feels like ages, when he and Jack would go on missions together and they’d fail and someone would die, or a dozen people or a hundred and Gabriel would try to shoulder it all, to explain it by blaming himself. Because that was preferable to the alternative, to acknowledging that sometimes the universe tilted just a little too far out of their favor and everything went to shit for no reason at all and there was nothing he could do to control it. But Jack never bought into that tactic. Would always grasp his arm and tell him something like _this isn’t the end, Gabe, we did everything we could and things went bad today but they’re gonna go better tomorrow, it isn’t your fault._

Gabriel used to believe him but then lost him and hadn’t realized until this moment how much he missed that, how much it buoyed him up.

But things have changed and gazing now into Jack’s bright blue eyes, Gabriel is almost lain low with guilt. He pulls his good leg up to his chest, his skin shining a little with the Dermatect. How does he explain it? How much does he confess? “Jack…it’s been a while since you’ve known me,” he murmurs. “I kind of deserved it.”

For a minute Jack doesn’t say anything. Then he rises off the bed, walks away from Gabriel, turns and leans up against the back of the couch. “There’s something you need to hear.”

Gabriel blinks. That’s not the reaction he was expecting.

“I was going to wait until you were rested, but…” He sighs. “Have you had a chance to read through the leaked documents?”

Gabriel snorts. “Why? I was _in_ Blackwatch. I was the one committing all those war crimes they got so worked up about.”

“That’s what’s been on the news,” Jack says. “But there was more in that leak. Gabe, there was stuff about _you.”_

Oh.

“The Overwatch committee—some of them, at least—they launched Blackwatch, supposedly for covert ops, but the true goal was a task force in the service of their own aims, off the books.” He gestures between the two of them. “And they wanted one of us in the field for it because we were in the soldier enhancement program and on the front lines of the Omnic Crisis and we were good at our jobs. But they had to be able to control whoever they picked. And they thought they’d have an easier go of it with you.”

Gabriel chuckles. Even they knew what he wouldn’t acknowledge. He was never that strong, regardless of what he thought of himself. “Of course they did.”

“Gabe—come on. Look at me.” Jack meets his gaze. “I’m used to getting what I want. Not an ideal candidate for conditioning.”

“Conditioning?” Gabriel asks distantly.

Jack folds his arms, shifting. “It started with the nanomachines. They encouraged the biotech research our labs were working on, the project Angela picked up later, and pressured you to volunteer for it. They knew how hard you took failure, got their people to use that, to convince you that you could save more people that way.”

Gabriel remembers—being asked about it by a parade of doctors and officers alike, for weeks and weeks. _You’ll be stronger,_ they told him. _A better soldier._ He was afraid but agreed to it eventually. It seemed expected of him.

“That was one part of it. Another part…” Jack’s eyes flick down. “…was me.”

Yes. While Gabriel was still recuperating from the nanomachine integration—lying in bed for hours at a time, feeling alternately like a slab of metal and a cloud of mist, terrified, not knowing if he’d ever recover—he saw the announcement on the TV. _Jack Morrison, with his outstanding record of service and commitment to the protection of all humanity, is the only choice for this position._

Gabriel was stung. His name wasn’t mentioned once during the ceremony, not even during the recounting of Jack’s exploits. He was left with his captain rank while another soldier was promoted over him into unit command. _Because of your recovery,_ they’d told him.

“I tried to visit, but they said you were still too weak,” Jack says.

“You tried to visit?” Gabriel blurts out. “They never told me.”

Jack grimaces. “They were separating us. Think about it, they assigned you to Blackwatch less than a month after you were back on duty. Put you in a different facility. They told me I wasn’t allowed to contact you, that Blackwatch couldn’t be connected to Overwatch operations in any capacity.”

Gabriel stares at his hands.

Blackwatch.

His first mission was an assassination. The next was the capture of a suspect for rendition and then interrogation back at the facility. His supervisor ordered him to take part.

He’d never tortured anyone before.

“I needed you.” The words rise out of him unbidden. “Jack, I needed you! I don’t care who told you not to talk to me!”

“I know.” Jack’s face is tight with pain. “I always thought—in a few more months, when I don’t have so many people looking over my shoulder, then I can talk to him again. I wanted to do it right, Gabe. You _know_ how much I care about Overwatch.” He pauses as if assembling his thoughts. “I…I did wonder about Blackwatch. It seemed…kind of extreme to cut me off completely like that. But…” He rubs his forehead, and his voice grows heavy with shame. “They bought me off. More resources for our field operations if I stayed in line. And they threatened the organization, too—not in so many words, but the message was pretty clear. I thought if I stayed I could at least keep an eye out.”

“But you didn’t,” Gabriel says dully.

For a moment the room is silent. Jack straightens, exhales, meets Gabriel’s eye to make his confession. “No. I was too afraid of losing my job. Losing Overwatch. I abandoned you and convinced myself it was for a greater good. And when you got angry about it I got defensive instead of just—listening.” A rueful, mirthless smile, out of place on Jack’s face. “The worst part is, if I _had_ looked—goddamnit. I should finish. So they separated us. Made it easier to get to you _and_ kept you from setting me straight. Then they had you in Blackwatch alone. You had the skills they wanted, but you also had a conscience they needed to get rid of. And they had a method for it. You should see the memos.” He shakes his head. “They funded the biotech research, you know. They were hoping the nanomachines would disrupt your moral compass. But I guess the tech was too good and that didn’t happen. So they went straight to the next phase.

“Gabe, they sent out _pages_ of messages to your commanders.” Jack holds Gabriel’s gaze as if desperate for him to understand. “Detailed plans of psychological injury to be inflicted on you in order to shape you into what they wanted.” He ticks items off on his fingers. “Questioning orders would be punished with abuse—verbal, physical, or both. Dismissal of your ideas. Attribution of your successes to others. They had _lists of words_ to be used in addressing you. ‘Machines.’ ‘Tool.’ ‘Weapon.’ “

_You’re made of machines now! Do you understand? You’re a fucking weapon, Reyes!_

Gabriel swallows.

“Negative reinforcement of autonomous decisions. God, Gabe. You wouldn’t know, they disguised it.” Jack grasps the couch back, his fingers indenting the fabric. “I read about Ukraine in ’58.”

Gabriel remembers.

The intel was wrong and their target showed up a day early, while he and Jesse were digging through her office. There was a chase, and Gabriel’s commander told them to stay in the city and wait for support, that the mission was too vital to abort. But Gabriel refused, stole a boat and got both him and Jesse miles downriver to a frozen swamp to hide.

He never knew how they were tracked but was interrupted in his search for firewood by Jesse’s screams of terror and—seconds later—agony. By the time he arrived to kill the fuckers half of Jesse’s teeth were knocked out, one of his kneecaps was a sack of bone powder, and his left arm was lying a few feet apart from the rest of his body.

“Fuck.” Gabriel covers his face. No. He doesn’t want to think about this.

“Blackwatch gave the thugs your location, Gabe. Passed on specific instructions and paid the guys off. They did it to punish you,” Jack says.

“But it was Jesse, not me,” Gabriel mumbles. The image of the shredded stump, just a few inches below the shoulder, is fresh as ever in his mind. “He was nineteen years old.”

Jack shrugs. “Guess they thought it would be more effective that way.”

It was. The guilt ate him alive for weeks. Months. Didn’t help they tore him apart when he returned. _What the fuck were you thinking, running off like that?! We were sending you fucking support! You got your subordinate’s arm blown off!_ And there wasn’t any other explanation. It was his doing. It _was._

“Gabe,” Jack says quietly. “You have to understand, they did this to you. They tore you down for years and years and they tricked you into thinking it was all your fault.”

Gabriel finds a coarse chuckle rising from his chest. He thinks how long it took for him to give up—and in contrast, how many long, fruitful years he gave to them afterwards, no more questioning orders, no more acting on his own instincts. How many lives he took because he convinced himself he didn’t have a choice. “Didn’t put up much of a goddamn fight, did I?”

Jack’s fist slams into the couch. “Jesus, Gabe, were you listening to a goddamn thing I said?! _They took that from you too!_ They told you you were a weapon, they hurt people when you disobeyed! Of _course_ you killed for them!”

Gabriel stares, uncomprehending. But he killed for them. And he’s killed for others. He did that, with his own two hands.

Jack comes over and sits on the bed again, the mattress indenting a little. The closeness recalls for a moment what happened between them two nights ago and Gabriel shrinks from it reflexively. “You didn’t deserve what happened to you today,” Jack says. “Okay? What you deserve is another shot.”

“I don’t.” He shakes his head. “Jack—I worked for Talon, I didn’t know what else to do, I knew Overwatch had become corrupt but I couldn’t figure out how to—“

“Gabe.” Jack finds his hand and takes it. “You don’t work for Talon anymore. Overwatch is starting over without any _committee_ to point us like a gun. You can do what you want now.”

Gabriel stares at their joined hands. What does he want?

“I want to think about this tomorrow,” he mutters.

Jack lets out a breath, his shoulders drawing in. “All right. Do you want to get some rest? I can…leave you alone, or—”

“I don’t want to be alone,” Gabriel replies.

Jack squeezes his fingers gently. “Okay.”

“But I’m not gonna be able to fucking sleep after that conversation.” He rubs his eyes. “Can you turn the TV on?”

“Yeah, no problem.” Jack rises.

Gabriel puts on the rest of the clothes—t-shirt and sweatpants—has a thought and rummages through the first aid kit, tosses down a dose and a half of painkillers. Jack is on the couch.

Gabriel comes over and sits beside him. The TV is showing a football game, Los Angeles versus Houston. Gabriel folds his legs up. He feels exposed.

“Hey,” he says.

Jack looks up. “Hm?”

“Can you lie down?”

He stands so Jack can straighten out and then crawls on top of him so they’re lying back to chest. Jack’s arms come around to rest on his middle, not enough to aggravate the bruises but enough so the tension starts to ease out of him, because he’s lying on the couch with Jack holding him close and the game’s on and there’s nowhere else to be right now, no one to answer to or tasks to complete. He could stay here forever.

It’s very warm. The volume on the TV’s just low enough so the commentary all blends together before it reaches him. Absently he follows the players, little splotches of color that circle back and forth and around each other like waterfowl flocking in a pond. Los Angeles is his team, and once in a while he pays attention enough to make sure they’re still winning. But it gets harder to focus. (Although that might be the painkillers.)

He lets his head fall back against Jack’s shoulder, eyes drifting shut. Thinks of kissing Jack’s neck—it’s right there—but feels that might be inappropriate mere hours after his rape. Then Jack shifts a little and kisses his hair.

Gabriel frowns. This…what does it remind him of? Then it comes to him. “Jack.”

“Hm?”

“Remember your thirty-fifth birthday party?”

 _The two of them sitting on the couch watching a nighttime talk show together, the apartment tidied up, the dishes in the wash. Gabriel drunk, awakening some hours later to the steady thud of Jack’s heartbeat under his ear._ There’s quiet for a minute in the small room except for the blur of speech from the television. Then Jack says softly, “Of course I remember.”

Gabriel lets out a long breath. “I just thought of it, that’s all.”

He shuts his eyes.

“Hey, Gabe.”

Gabriel blinks, squinting. On the television someone’s giving an interview and a final score is plastered across the bottom of the screen. He must have dozed off. At least his team won.

“Want to move to the bed? Might be more comfortable.”

“Yeah.” He sits up with effort.

“I’m gonna take a quick shower. I’ll be out in a minute.”

Gabriel nods and crawls into bed. He wakes up again to the mattress shifting under him as Jack climbs in.

He’s done with today. Drags the blanket over his shoulder and shuts his eyes one last time.

——

He’s being raped.

The Talon base is a thousand miles away and he’s already been rescued. But he’s being raped again. Matsuda is here with a hand around his throat, thrusting into him. _So?_ he asks. _You enjoying yourself yet?_

Gabriel blinks rapidly in the dark room, his fingers balling in the sheets. Matsuda is right behind him, raping him _Stop._ How does he stop it? What can he do? For now he’s just a body. Or was _,_ because it’s been long enough, surely the machines must be back. _Dissolve,_ he thinks. _Dissolve. Dissolve. Dissolve!_

The machines surge to life.

He feels them trying to destroy him, to scatter him into smoke. But something’s wrong or simply not recovered yet, and his body remains stubbornly resolved. _No!_ he thinks, tearing at himself again. The machines recalculate along the iron lines of his command—and they have obeyed him before when he demanded _run_ or _climb_ or _heal,_ but _be not this anymore_ is somewhat less cut-and-dry.

His body flushes black as night.

There’s a sparking pain in his eyes as they divide and bubble out, spilling from his too-small sockets; the bone flows, cavitates to accommodate them. His cheeks split and expose to the air his spur-like teeth, which grow and pierce his gums, doubling in number. His black skin seethes off of him and distorts his silhouette; when he looks down with his many eyes it’s hard to tell where the dark room ends and he begins.

 _Well?_ Matsuda is still raping him. _You enjoying yourself yet?_

Gabriel ascends from the bed and screams.

The machines change his throat so he doesn’t have to hear it, doesn’t have to listen to his own cry of human agony. Instead the sound rolls out as an explosion underwater, muffled and fathomless and shaking the air around him. Motion at the lower edge of his locular vision—Jack sits up, instantly awake. _“Gabe!”_

He is being raped. Matsuda’s grip tightens around his neck so he can’t breathe anymore. _Thought you loved taking it up the ass, Reyes._ _Shoulda seen your face on the video._ Gabriel’s hands grow heavy, claws dripping from his fingertips. He scrapes at his roiling sides and back, trying to strip Matsuda away. Two hands are not enough. With a sort of relief he finds another pair of arms being disgorged from his body, and a third pair after that. He gouges and gouges and still feels the sweat rolling down his spine, the cruel fingers digging into his hips.

“Gabe—“ Jack, throwing the covers off. “Gabe, you’re fine, you’re safe! Nothing’s happening!”

Gabriel rounds on him, furious. _Why aren’t you helping me?!_ he howls. _I needed you!_ The meaning lost in a deep, wordless roar that makes the walls shake. He erupts forward, six arms grabbing Jack’s shirt, his face and neck, slamming him violently into the headboard. Jack gasps but doesn’t fight, only struggles to speak. “Gabe, just—tell me what’s going on!” He reaches up and rests a hand on one of Gabriel’s wrists.

No nerves there but the machines transmit the basic information— _pressure, warmth._ Even in such rudimentary form it’s _more_ than Matsuda’s choking grasp on his throat. Unable to speak, Gabriel just nods, letting Jack his grip relax—but still holding him, a pair of hands each on his waist, his shoulders, his face. Needs to feel it. _Warmth._

“It’s all right, I got you.” Jack reaches out to stroke Gabriel’s cheek, calloused fingertips brushing his skin. The other hand rests at his hip, cushioned inside the volatile substance of his body. “I’m here, Gabe, okay? Nothing’s gonna happen to you.”

The door bangs open. _“Get away from him!”_

Gabriel spins. Jack is extracting himself hastily. “Shit—hang on a minute!”

It’s Fareeha. He recognizes her from their clashes in the field, but it’s different to see her up close. Much older now, but he can still see the girl he knew thirty years ago. He used to carry her on his shoulders wherever she pleased. Now she’s pointing a pistol at him.

“Fareeha.” Jack steps between her and Gabriel. “It’s fine, no one’s hurting anyone.”

The barrel of Fareeha’s pistol readjusts over Jack’s shoulder, and her eyes are locked on Gabriel, startled but steady. “What the hell is that?”

She might not be able to tell. She’s blocking most of the light from the hall, and Gabriel is indistinct anyway except for his too-many eyes. With effort he mends his cheeks to conceal his gnarled teeth, then shakes off the extraneous arms; they curl up into smoke. The rest will have to wait. His throat works, finally produces words. “It’s me, Fareeha.” A half-smile, closed to hide his teeth. “Sorry about the mess.”

A pause. “Gabriel?” Fareeha asks, breathless.

He nods, dropping his many eyes. He seems to have lost his courage.

“I…I heard a loud noise—“

“Yeah, I know. Sorry for waking you. We’re okay, I promise,” Jack says.

Fareeha hesitates, then lowers her gun. “Jack, can I speak with you in private?”

“Uh—how about tomorrow?”

A long-suffering sigh. “If you insist.”

“Yeah. Good night. Sorry again.”

The door slides shut. Jack turns and comes over, grasps Gabriel’s arm. “Are you okay?”

Gabriel rubs his forehead. “Yeah, I just…” He tries to think how to explain it all. A hallucination? A nightmare? “Felt like it was happening all over again. So I tried to get away and kind of…went overboard.” His skin is discrete now from the dark room but stillan onyx black.

“It didn’t help,” he finishes.

Jack cups his face, squeezes his arm gently. “Gabe…”

“Hang on,” he interjects. “I have another idea. Give me a second.” He steps back.

_Just a body._

The machines go to work, trimming his overdense teeth, scouring his onyx skin back to brown. His eyes recede, the sockets aching as they close in again. The claws peel away like dried wax. In a few moments he almost looks normal.

“Can you lie down?” he asks.

So Jack climbs into bed, lying back, and Gabriel crawls on top of him. Nerves. Still patent, and he feels Jack’s firm chest under his own, the gentle fingers stroking the back of his neck, the way their legs tangle together and their bare feet brush against each other. When he breathes in it smells like lemongrass.

That’s real. _That’s_ real. Matsuda isn’t here anymore. Matsuda’s dead.

He’s here with Jack and no one else.

“Damnit, Gabe,” Jack murmurs. “I missed you so goddamn much.”

Gabriel kisses the crook of his shoulder above the t-shirt collar (soft, warm skin on his lips) and a second later can’t figure out what possessed him to do that. He shouldn’t be encouraging—whatever this is, doesn’t know what the hell his future looks like. What even tomorrow looks like.

But tonight he has Jack’s fingers running through his hair, a broad hand slipping up under his shirt to rub his back. He shivers a little at the contact. The machines have left him alone for now, and he isn’t used to being touched, especially not like this.

He wants to stay awake for it but doesn’t manage that for very long.

——

There are no nightmares.

Gabriel doesn’t dream at all that night, at least not that he remembers—not even the strange, repetitive dreams he’s often had since the nanomachine integration, of wandering down a garden path walled off on both sides with darkness encroaching from every direction, able to see only a few feet in front of him. But there are no garden paths this time, and Matsuda makes no return.

He wakes with Jack’s arms around him and for a moment he isn’t afraid.

He’ll have to be, of course. Overwatch may refuse to protect him. Guzman will want his head. The machines may have been damaged by that Talon program—he could be dying for all he knows. But right now he settles his head back down on Jack’s chest and shuts his eyes.

When he wakes again it’s to Jack shifting beneath him, brushing his face lightly. “Want me to go get us some breakfast?” he asks.

Gabriel pushes himself upright with a deep sigh and raises his arms above his head, stretching. Then he drops them, rubbing his eyes. “How about you take me to the mess hall instead?”

Jack blinks. “Uh—yeah, okay.”

The pain hits then, and Gabriel sucks in air through his teeth, squeezing his smashed knee. Goddamn painkillers have worn off. “Ah, _fuck.”_

Jack’s out of bed. “Hang on, I’ll get you something for that.”

Another dose and a half later and he’s limping down the hallway, supporting himself on the wall. Jack rests a hand at his back. He wishes the goddamn machines would fix his leg, at least. But they’re still dormant, even after their brief resurgence last night.

“Hey—I still have the thing they stuck in you,” Jack says. “Can I give it to Angela? See if she can work on a way to protect you from that in the future?”

Gabriel nods. “That’s probably a good idea.”

He still draws stares in the mess hall. For a minute he freezes up, thinks _they know, they know what happened to me._ The wave of self-disgust makes his knees buckle. They know all of the debased things Talon did to him yesterday. He wants to go stash himself back in Jack’s room so he doesn’t have to expose himself to their scrutiny.

Then he realizes they don’t know that at all, and he’s a man risen from death with red eyes to boot so that might be why they’re staring. The disgust dissipates somewhat; he scrubs away the last few shreds himself as they head through the hall.

Jack sits him down at one end of a long table. While Gabriel waits no one approaches him—in fact he seems rather to repel them, a wide berth clearing around where he sits. He doesn’t mind terribly, preferring that to probing questions.

Then someone sits down directly in front of him and he looks up.

“Gabriel.” Ana pops the top off of her plastic container. “How are you this morning?”

She’s older now, of course, but so is he—and so is Jack, for that matter. It’s comforting in a way to know he isn’t a complete anomaly. A machine ghost, yes; but gray of hair and returned-from-the-dead are qualities shared. “I feel like shit,” he grumbles. “Painkillers haven’t kicked in yet.”

“Mm.” She dips her spoon into the container—looks like fuul. “Will you be staying here long?”

He stares down at the table. “That’s the fucking question, isn’t it?”

Ana chuckles. “Jack has been trying to convince me to join his new Overwatch. I was wondering how many reasons I would have to consider it.”

Gabriel rests his head in his hand. _But I’ve killed a lot of people,_ he wants to tell her. _Why would I be a reason?_

Jack leaning up against the couch, solemn, arms folded. _Gabe. You have to understand, they did this to you._

It’s hard to believe they did _all_ of it.

“Here.” Jack appears, setting down a double espresso in front of Gabriel and dumping about fifteen packets of sugar next to it. “Morning, Ana.”

She waves her spoon at him. “Good morning. I was just asking Gabriel how long he was planning to stay.”

Jack hesitates, then sits, setting down his own cup _(latte, no sugar,_ Gabriel thinks). “Well—do you want to stay?”

Gabriel half-grins. “Yeah, that’ll go over well. ‘Reaper’s joining up, I know he shot at you a couple of months ago but he’s better now, I promise—‘ “

“That wasn’t the question,” Jack interrupts. “Gabe, do you _want_ to stay?”

Gabriel finds his smile fading. He presses the heels of his hands to his eyes.

He _wants_ to be someplace where he doesn’t have to keep his guard up all the time, isn’t repulsed by the base sadism of everyone he works with. Mostly he wants things to go back to the way they were. But they can’t, of course. He’s killed hundreds of people, committed acts that news anchors weep over and reporters win awards on. It’s never going to be the way it used to.

This is too complicated. He stalls for time, tosses half the sugar packets at Jack. “I don’t use _this_ much sugar.”

Jack snorts. “Pretty damn close.”

“Listen, if you grew up—“

“Cuban coffee, I know. Here, how about if you come back in I buy you your own coffeemaker as a housewarming gift?”

 _That easy, huh?_ Gabriel sighs. “Jack…not everyone’s gonna be as forgiving as you are.”

Jack’s face grows serious. “And if anyone gives you shit they’ll answer to me. Gabe, what do you _want?”_

He remembers when he used to daydream about their future—he, Jack and Ana decorated commanders, Overwatch a beacon of peace and hope, he and Jack still going into the field to help those in need despite their graying hair and wearing joints. Overwatch is disgraced now, of course. A beacon of failed promise. The world thought they would be good and instead Gabriel learned what methods were best for urgent extraction of information and which for the long-term plays; he built his assassinations one on the other until his efficiency surpassed that of anyone else, he perfected the technique of amputating fingers or ears to be packaged up and sent to uncooperative targets.

“I want to do something good,” he mutters.

That’s the best answer he can think of. Because he used to _love_ that, seeing soldiers saved or families kept whole and knowing _I did that, I can protect people, I can do it with my own two hands._ In Blackwatch they never let him save anyone. Instead it was an endless train of blackmail, theft, arson, murder, worse.

Jack cocks his head with a grin. “Well…there’s an arms deal going down in Kansas City tomorrow night that I was planning to interrupt. You want in?”

Of course he does but he also feels it would be presumptuous, that he hasn’t earned a place in the field at Jack’s side. Because Jack has been trying to make amends. And Gabriel kills people for money.

Used to.

He’s about to say yes but the word catches in his throat. What if—Gabriel dampens the panic, traces the rim of the coffee cup with his thumb. “Is it Talon?”

Jack softens. “No.” He moves a little closer, rests a hand on Gabriel’s back. “It’s not Talon.”

Gabriel grunts. “You got any spare shotguns lying around?”

“For Christ’s sake, I can’t believe—“ He shakes his head, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “Yeah, if you insist, I’ll dig some up.”

Gabriel lets out a long breath and picks up a pair of sugar packets, tearing them open. “Then I guess I’ll go.”

Ana rests her chin on her hand and gazes at him fondly. “You were always meant to do good, Gabriel. I’ll be so glad to see you doing it once more.”

He lifts an eyebrow, dumping the sugar packets into his coffee. “Does that mean you’re coming?”

Jack chuckles, provoking a good-natured glare from Ana. “Well, this is a historic event, is it not?” she says. “We haven’t been in the field together for…what is it, twenty years?”

Gabriel had thought it was over and is having difficulty coming to terms with the fact that he could have this again, despite Blackwatch and what he did after. But he wants it—if he can’t make his body the way it used to be again (his tongue slides over the gnarled points of his teeth) at least he can try to be the man he once dreamed of being. He leans a little into Jack’s side, feeling self-indulgent, and takes a sip of coffee. Needs more sugar. “I should pay Dr. Ziegler a visit. See if I need any fixing up.”

“Not a bad idea.” Jack kisses his temple. “Her tech has advanced a lot in the past few years, you know. I think you’ll be okay.”

Gabriel rips open another pair of sugar packets and dumps them in his coffee. He thinks, after a while, he might be too.


End file.
